


Forty-Two Years and Counting

by ArtemisMoonsong



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Just your average grumpy erudite 40-something apostate, M/M, Solas is not Fen'Harel, p.s. there's side Cullrian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisMoonsong/pseuds/ArtemisMoonsong
Summary: When Solas joined the inquisition, he did so out of curiosity, and perhaps a vague sense of duty. He certainly didn't count on developing feelings for the vibrant young creature who would, through no fault of his own, become the leader of the newly fledged Inquisition.





	

Solas watched with a slightly furrowed brow as the newly appointed leader of the inquisition continued to tug relentlessly at a particularly shiny red piece of stone jutting out from the side of the cave wall.

“Do you require assistance with that?” he finally asked.

“Nope,” said Talan, “I think I’ve almost got it.”

He had never witnessed such persistence. After a few more fruitless tugs, the Inquisitor actually braced his feet against the side of the wall and _pulled_ with all his might. Solas didn’t imagine this would have any real effect, but to his surprise the piece of stone finally broke off from the adjoining rock with a loud crack—sending its new owner in the process flying backwards.

“Vhenan!” he cried, hurrying forward. “Are you all right?”

He knelt down beside the younger man, Talan blinking and smiling up at him.

“You called me ‘vhenan’.”

Solas blinked. _Fenedhis_ , he thought. He could feel his face becoming warm.

“I did,” he said carefully. “And what of it? My question to you still stands.”

Talan frowned as he sat up, reaching back to gingerly touch the back of his head.

“I think I’m okay. Might have a bit of a headache for the next few days. But at least I got this!”

He held up the blood-red stone, a delighted smile coming to his face. The slanted rays of the sun shone through the gaps in the surrounding cave walls, causing the stone to shine with unearthly brightness. Solas wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t understand the Inquisitor’s fascination with such things.

“Has anyone ever told you you have something of an obsessive personality,” he said.

“My entire clan!” Talan chirped. He reached for the hand Solas offered him, both of them standing together.

He gave the stone a little toss before tucking it into the bag at his side.

“Harritt can do a lot of amazing things, you know,” he continued. “He told me to keep my eyes open, so that’s what I’m doing. Plus I think it gives him purpose. And I have a sneaking suspicion he secretly likes prettying things up a bit.”

“I can certainly see no other purpose for the jewels he’s woven into those bracers you’re wearing.”

Talan beamed at him. “Solas! Have you been staring at my hands?”

Solas drew himself up, his right hand gripping his staff. He was forty-two years old. He should not find himself so constantly blindsided—no matter how much he wanted to count the freckles on the younger man’s face.

“No,” he finally said, keeping his voice low and steady. “Inquisitor, please. I’m too old to flirt.”

Talan looked at him with widened eyes before throwing his head back, laughing.

“Oh, Solas! You’re so utterly ridiculous sometimes!”

As Solas really had nothing to say in response to such an absurd accusation, he simply pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the laughing creature before him.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said a familiar voice from behind.

He turned and smiled politely at Cassandra. She had a purposefully earnest look on her face, which told him that she fully believed she _was_ interrupting them, but that she didn’t know how to do so without appearing rude.

“You bloody well are!” cried Sera, hopping down from a lip of the cave’s mouth where she’d _clearly_ been hiding. “They were about to have a kiss and a cuddle.”

Cassandra blinked. “Oh.”

“We were not,” said Solas, annoyed.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Talan. “But it doesn’t really matter. We’ve already done that. The kissing part, anyway. In the Fade! It was very romantic.”

Solas closed his eyes and sighed, the sound long and heavy.

“Oh,” he heard Cassandra say again. “I… had no idea.”

“It is irrelevant,” he said, reopening his eyes. “Seeker, did you have something to report to the Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she said, the momentary wonder disappearing quickly from her face—the woman was far too obsessed with romance than any healthy individual ought to have been. “Inquisitor, I—

“Then you’ll both excuse me,” said Solas, giving them both a nod.

He chose to ignore Sera’s rolling eyes as he walked past her. His left hand gripped the talisman that hung around his neck—an old nervous habit, letting him know he wasn’t dealing well with whatever was happening at the moment. Really, they had far more important things to worry about than the relationship struggles of a middle-aged elven apostate. Not that he fooled himself with the _possibility_ of there ever even being a relationship between himself and the inquisition’s rather happy-go-lucky new leader.

“Do you think I tease him too much?” he heard Talan ask, once he was nearly out of earshot.

“You … have a rather forceful personality, Inquisitor,” Cassandra replied. “Not that that is a failing. But Solas is… well, I believe he is rather proud.”

“Proud and _boring_ ,” said Sera. “I don’t know what you see in him.”

Talan’s laughter echoed through the forest. “He isn’t boring. He’s…”

But he could no longer hear them. He found himself resenting the thought Cassandra had now planted into his brain. _Was_ he too proud? Surely not. He had amassed more knowledge than any pitiful Circle mage could ever dream of. Even many Dalish keepers would be impressed by the things he knew—which said about as much about the Dalish in general as one might ever need to know. But that wasn’t _pride_. That was confidence. And well-earned, too.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing an innocent mushroom rather viciously with the tip of his staff as he made his way back to camp.

* * *

The trek back to Skyhold was arduous and long, and even more tedious than normal since he was returning without the Inquisitor, who’d been needed elsewhere. Cassandra and Blackwall were to accompany him, which set Solas’s mind at ease more than he was willing to admit. Not that Talan was irresponsible or incapable of looking after himself, but being the head of an institution like the Inquisition made for a rather large target on one’s back. He was close to insisting a mage also accompany them but feared Talan would make the obvious leap and ask him why he wouldn’t be joining them instead of returning with the supply train. The stack of books he’d ordered from Minrathous that were allegedly waiting on his desk at Skyhold could only work as an excuse for so long.

 _Speaking_ of Tevinter—he also had the uncannily bad luck to be traveling back with Dorian of all people. They’d stopped to pick his fellow mage up on the way back to Skyhold, as Dorian had stayed behind initially to assist a group of apostates who were involved in a land dispute with the local noble family. This “land dispute” chiefly involved the poor and struggling apostates—who had, incidentally, become apostates through no fault of their own—wishing to set up camp in an abandoned hunting lodge the family hadn’t used for nearly a generation. The local townspeople were split on the apostates’ attempted settlement, especially since there were children involved—the mages had a child as young as six with them, the poor young thing clearly terrified out of her wits. Then there was the fact that several of the apostates were trained healers and had used their abilities to assist the beleaguered townspeople—well, it had been a mess, and Dorian, who knew well the machinations of noble minds and yet himself had rather a large and bleeding heart, had volunteered to help.

“Dreadfully dull!” the younger man replied in answer to Solas’s inquiry as to how his stay had been. “Honestly, you’ve no idea how puffed up these country nobles can be. I don’t think a single one of them has ever even _seen_ the inside of a real city. As for the townspeople, well, it’s one thing to be poor, but it’s another to simply refuse to bathe oneself for reasons utterly unknown to me.”

“Access to clean water?” Solas suggested, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“I don’t think so,” said Dorian, smiling and waggling a finger at him. “You’ll not out-pity-the-locals me, Solas. They had a more than working irrigation system, and a rather generous-sized lake less than a mile from the village itself—which, by the way, the apostates themselves were more than capable of using. Hardly surprising, considering the luxuries one is admittedly allowed to partake of in one of your southern Circles. Do you know, a young woman, a blacksmith’s daughter, I think it was, even made eyes at me over dinner that first night at the inn. Even if I _did_ have any interest in the decidedly full nature of her décolletage I’d have been turned off by the smell alone!”

“And what of the disagreement between the apostates and the nobles,” Solas asked, already weary of the other man’s constant non sequiturs.

“Ah.” Dorian sat back against his side of the coach, folding his arms and crossing one leg over the other. “I was, on the whole, successful. I convinced the nobles not to attempt to vacate the apostates.”

“That is excellent news.”

“Yes, I suppose. However, I was only able to convince them by pointing out that if they tried the mages would likely retaliate, and with the entire Templar Order being personae non gratae, they’d likely be stuck with a town full of raging demons. And nobody, I assured them, wanted that.” He shrugged. “Turns out, they agreed with me.”

Solas stared at him for a good five seconds before he realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it with an audible click. Meanwhile, he did his best to harness his own anger—not that there was any risk of his summoning a demon, but he knew from experience that losing one’s temper rarely resulted in one winning the argument.

“So you ignited the flames of prejudice and hatred,” he said carefully, “merely to save your own reputation.”

“Well, that and the lives of the apostates and the villagers, yes.”

There was a vaguely uncomfortable silence for a few moments; then Dorian continued.

“Now _don’t_ look at me like that, Solas. It was truly the best I could do. Left to their own devices, the nobleman’s sons and daughter _would_ have tried to run the mages off. They all three made it abundantly clear over dinner that they were highly skilled hunters. It pained me to try and negotiate with people who didn’t even see mages as fellow human beings but rather viewed them as animals to be driven out or hunted down. But for the sake of the innocent I persisted.” He sighed. “It’s an unsteady peace, but it is peace nonetheless. And I don’t think _you_ would have been any more or less successful,” he added, lifting one finely trimmed eyebrow.

Solas crossed his own arms and looked out the window, frowning.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “But I still do not like it. If there is to be peace between the mages and non-magic folk throughout the land we cannot allow this fear and hatred to continue to fester.”

“Well, in the nobles’ defense, there is some truth behind that fear.”

“Indeed. But the inquisition has spoken with these mages and has ascertained that they were well-trained and hence not a danger to anyone.”

“True. But the inquisition is still new. They’ve no reason to take our word on anything. At least not yet.”

“And how many damned bridges must we fix before they do?” he finally snapped back. “How many rifts must the inquisitor close? How many lives must he save? Until his own body is broken and bleeding? They would use him—you would _all_ use him—until there is nothing left to be used. And for what? To appease petty nobles and ignorant townsfolk who don’t know the first thing about tolerance and understanding!”

Dorian sat silent through this mini-tirade, both his eyebrows raised now. He lifted a hand to stroke thoughtfully over his mustache, a tiny smile emerging.

“You’re rather in love with him, aren’t you?” he asked.

Solas felt a rush of warmth abruptly suffuse his face.

“You speak as if it is an accusation to be made,” he finally said. The stiffness in his own voice was humiliating, but it was the best he could manage.

“Not at all,” replied Dorian, smiling. “Merely an observation. I think it’s rather sweet, to be honest. Plus I get the feeling you’ve not recently been in love, and the whole experience is rather bewildering for you.”

Solas pursed his lips together, his eyes drifting towards the window again.

“In that you would not be entirely incorrect,” he said.

“Well, then. Allow me to offer a bit of advice.”

“Thank you, but no. I am neither so desperate nor so pitiable as to look for advice in _your_ direction.”

“You know, I’d be offended by that if I thought you really meant it.”

“You are free to take as much offense as you like.”

“Nonsense. You’re only talking like that because you’re embarrassed.” He sat back, sighing. “Goodness. If I didn’t already have my hands full…”

Solas looked back at him, his eyes widening with shock. “What, you? And _me_?” He scoffed under his breath. “What an absurd notion.”

“Hmm. Not so absurd that you won’t think about it later, I’ll warrant.”

Solas closed his eyes and sighed, which only spurred the younger man on more, Dorian laughing at his silent response.

“And what of Cullen?” he asked. “How might he react to your wandering eyes and thoughts?”

“Stir up quite a fuss, I’d imagine. Then come running back to my bedside an hour later begging for my forgiveness.”

Solas snorted, disgusted by the man’s arrogance.

“Now, on to my advice,” Dorian continued, clearly unperturbed by his companion’s repeated attempts to reject said advice. “First, and this is important because I’ve an ongoing bet with Sister Leliana and Varric: have you slept together?”

“ _That_ is none of your concern,” Solas replied testily.

“So that would be a ‘no.’ Interesting.”

“How is _that_ a ‘no’?” he asked, too exasperated by the other man to remember to be embarrassed.

“It’s best not to question my knowledge of such matters. Now, on to the second question: do you believe he returns your affections?”

Much as he stalwartly refused to play this game of Dorian’s he found himself pausing to consider the question.

“I suppose I can’t really answer that,” he finally admitted. “Though, again, I reiterate that this is hardly any concern of yours.”

“Is it not the concern of one friend for another?”

“I would hardly characterize the pair of us as friends.”

Dorian made a little _tsk_ ing sound. “And there’s your problem. You can’t possibly fathom that someone would like you, even though you’ve made very little effort to encourage their affections. In fact I’d hazard saying you’d _prefer_ people not like you. It’s probably much simpler that way.”

Solas sighed and rubbed his forehead, his eyes fluttering briefly closed. The man was incessantly annoying, but it was painful to admit just how close to home he was hitting.

“And your advice?” he asked. “I seem to recall there was a purpose behind your harassment of me.”

“Oh, I haven’t really anything much to say as far as advice is concerned. To be honest, I just wanted to see if I could make you blush.” He laughed, clearly taken with his own cleverness. “It was astonishingly easier than I imagined it would be.”

Solas very nearly ordered the entire caravan to halt so that he could disembark and return home to Skyhold on foot. If it weren’t for the fact that he would likely have frozen solid traveling up the mountain alone and unprotected he very well might have done so.

As it is, Dorian had to content himself with the stone cold silent treatment for the rest of the trip back. It was an utterly juvenile response, and far less than the irritating ass deserved.

* * *

It was a full month before the Inquisitor and the rest of his entourage arrived back at Skyhold. That morning found Solas busy at his desk, suffering through his third cup of tea that morning. He had been unable to sleep, plagued by a passage he’d read the previous night that spoke of ancient artifacts and their connection to the Fade. He was sure it would help them understand the possible origin of the Fade rifts that currently plagued the land. After a mere five hours of tossing and turning, he’d finally gotten up and returned to his study, his eyes combing over the passage yet again, his mind doing his best to make sense of the archaic language.

“A ha! I knew I’d find you here.”

He looked up into the smiling face of Talan Lavellan.

“Truly you are wise beyond your years,” he said, returning to his book. He picked up a pen, dipping it in ink, and scratched down a possible formula for a spell that might have an effect on the rifts.

“Goodness you’re grumpy,” said Talan, coming forward and plopping down in one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Didn’t get enough sleep?”

“Not very much, no.”

“Nightmares?”

Solas laughed despite himself. “Certainly not. If you must know, I was thinking about something I had read.”

He was tangentially aware of the Inquisitor leaning forward. Curiosity was also wafting off of the younger man likes waves from a sinking pebble.

“It is related to magic,” Solas continued. “I’m afraid you would not understand.”

“Oh.”

The Inquisitor sat back in his chair, a little sigh escaping him. Solas thought he would stand and leave then, but he didn’t. He remained sitting. Finally, he set down his pen and looked up, his eyes meeting the younger man’s.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

Talan grinned. “Aren’t you excited to see me?”

He considered the question before answering. (Stalling, he could admit to himself. He was stalling.) While it was true his heart seemed to beat a little bit faster the more his gaze held the younger man’s before him, he would hardly classify the response as “excited.”

“Not as such,” he finally said. “Though I am pleased to see you return home in one piece.”

Talan frowned. “Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit what, Inquisitor?”

“Not even a little bit EXCITED, hahren. To see me.”

The deferential form of address surprised him, even made him press his lips together to suppress the smile he felt curling onto his face. Talan rarely addressed him as such, not unless they’d had some sort of argument, which was a rarity in and of itself.

It was not a little bit adorable.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said.

He picked up his pen again and returned to his book. He’d not read three sentences, however, before a sudden motion had him sitting back in alarm.

“ _Fenedhis_!” he cried, looking up at the Inquisitor, who had leapt up onto his desk in one fluid motion. “What in the world are you doing?”

The younger man grinned. “Trying to get your attention.”

“And to what purpose, might I ask?”

Talan lowered down on his heels, hands now resting on his bent knees. He leaned forward then, tilting his head slightly, his lips meeting Solas’s for a kiss. Solas let his eyes slide closed, not at all surprised when he felt the younger man’s tongue slip in for a taste. He obliged and returned the favor, his heart now decidedly skipping in his breast. He had one hand resting on the Inquisitor’s thigh before he realized what he was doing—and where he was doing it—and abruptly sat back.

“No,” he said, panting lightly.

Talan frowned. “Why?” His freckles stood out even more than usual beneath his flushed cheeks.

Solas stood up, and it was a good thing the tunic he was wearing over his trousers was long.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should go. I must… check something in the library.”

Talan rocked back onto the desk, sitting down and lowering his legs so that they dangled over the edge.

“The library? Right this very instant?”

“Yes,” Solas said, frustrated by the huskiness that crept into his voice. He turned and made his way out of the room, heading upstairs. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), Talan did not follow. Luck was also on his side—Dorian, who was probably the only person to spend more time in the library than himself, wasn’t here. He found a chair in a corner by a window and sat down with a sigh. After a moment, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the back of the chair.

What was the matter with him?

“Solas?

He opened his eyes, his vision a little blurry at first, his head a bit woozy. It was then that he noticed the rays slanting through the window had shifted. He must have fallen asleep.

He breathed in deeply, sitting up and rubbing his forehead.

“Yes?” he said.

When he looked up, it was up into the anxious face of the inquisition’s commander.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Cullen. Can I help you?”

“I ought to be asking you the same question,” replied the other man, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gazed down in concern. “Are you quite all right?”

Solas breathed in again, pressing a hand into the small of his back as he stood, causing the bones to pop a little.

“A little tired, perhaps,” he said. “Though I must look far worse for you to consider asking in the first place.” He nodded at the book in Cullen’s hand. “More local customs?”

The commander wasn’t one for the library—which was to say, he was not a great reader. Whenever he had a book in hand, it was usually related to his job. Lately he’d been studying up on various Orlesian customs, especially those that were specific to various local hamlets and villages. In doing so, he could then train his men how to deal with various factions and towns, thus making it easier for them to get whatever job done that needed doing.

“Farming techniques,” Cullen said, a guilty look coming to his face. “Specifically, Tevinter farming techniques.”

Solas blinked. “Tevinter farming techniques? Do you have business in Tevinter?”

Cullen opened his mouth, then closed it. He tilted his head sideways, clearly wanting to say something, but seeming to not know how. He was also slowly turning pink.

Solas felt rather like an idiot.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.” There was an awkward silence, then he added, “For after the war?”

Cullen nodded grimly. “If that’s what we’re calling it. Well…”

“And the Fade rifts. Of course.”

“Yes. I… suppose the inquisition will have little need of a commander once they are all closed.”

“And once the red templars are gone, and Corypheus is defeated.”

“Yes…”

Solas tried to keep his lips from twitching. “And so afterward you are off to Tevinter?”

The commander was definitely blushing now. He reached up, sighing, and scratching anxiously at the back of his neck.

“It’s a silly thought,” he said, a wry look coming to his face. “He’d likely laugh in my face if he caught me reading this. Besides, who knows how long the conflict will last? We may all be old and gray before we learn the secrets to Corypheus’ defeat.”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” said Solas. “I think it’s… commendable.”

 _Commendable_. He wasn’t certain where the word had come from. Well, he could hardly utter the word ‘romantic’ aloud, which is truly what it was. He had trouble imagining why anyone would go through such trouble for a man like Dorian, but then, he supposed there was a reason certain people fell for one another. A spirit had once told him that every soul had its corresponding match, though of course, spirits knew no more about such things than did ordinary men and women.

Cullen looked down, smiling.

“That is nice of you say,” he said. He looked up again, their eyes meeting. “And what of yourself?”

“Myself?” The question startled him.

“Yourself and…” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I am overstepping my boundaries.”

 _Mythal'enaste_. Was he never to have a moment’s peace?

He folded his hands behind his back. “Not at all. Though I confess I haven’t the faintest clue to whom or what you are referring.”

The frank look Cullen gave him almost made him ashamed of himself.

“Can I ask you something?” the other man said, continuing onward before Solas could agree to the request. “Do you have even the _faintest clue_ what effect toying with his feelings is having on him? He came into my office, you know. Face as red as a tomato, tears in his eyes. He ought to be focusing on things that matter, not heartless old men who seek only to lead him on and then break his heart.”

Solas could only stare back at him. Words completely failed him in that moment. There was too much to respond to, and it was almost as if his brain couldn’t process it all at once.

Old man?

A broken heart??

“He was crying?” he blurted out, quite unable to picture the scene Cullen had just outlined for him.

“So you _do_ care.”

Solas straightened, his lips pursing together. “Of course I care. Have I given any indication that I do not?”

Cullen turned away, tucking the book on Tevinter farming beneath one arm. “Well, if that’s true, you might consider speaking with him. I believe he’s in his room—if you aren’t too frightened to approach him there.”

The parting words stung as they were meant to. How quaint. An assault on his heartlessness as well as his manhood. Fortunately, he was above such petty nonsense. He sighed, pausing to check his appearance in the reflection of the window before leaving his little alcove and heading downstairs.

Admittedly, it did feel as if every eye in Skyhold were focused on him as he exited his study and crossed the main hall, his footsteps clearly taking him in the direction of the Inquisitor’s private rooms. Varric, the insufferable rogue, even gave him a little wink. Indeed, the man would know the true meaning of fear should he ever endeavor to publish a facsimile of these events in one of his books.

Once out of the main hall, he made his way up the twisting staircase, pausing before the Inquisitor’s bedroom door. He took a deep breath before raising his hand and knocking.

There was a moment’s pause, then a familiar voice calling from within: “Come in.”

He opened the door. Never having been here before, he was mildly surprised to be greeted with yet another, albeit much shorter, set of stairs. He made his way up, his hand sliding absently along the bannister.

Talan was sitting on his bed, a selection of books strewn out before him. It was rather an odd sight. Like the inquisition’s commander, the Inquisitor was not known to be overly fond of reading.

He also, Solas noticed, did not appear to be crying. Nor did it seem as if he had been anytime recently.

 _Ah_.

“Solas!” he said, his eyes wide with shock.

It was discomforting, realizing he was likely the last person Talan would ever anticipate entering his bedroom.

“Inquisitor,” he said. He folded his hands behind his back, rocking back lightly on his heels. He had no earthly idea what to say.

Talan waited for a few moments before asking, politely, “Did you need something?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The irony of his speechlessness, after just witnessing the same in Cullen, was not lost on him. But damned if he couldn’t figure out how to work his way out of this one.

“Look,” Talan finally said, holding up the open book he was apparently reading, “Come and see what I’ve been reading!”

After a moment’s hesitation, he unclasped his hands and came forward. At Talan’s insistence, he sat down beside him on the bed, though he was careful to keep a good deal of space between them.

“ _Techniques on Magical Sealing_ ,” he said, reading the title at the top of the page.

“I’m trying to learn,” said Talan. “About my mark. And the rifts, and how it is that I can close them.”

Solas lifted his eyes to meet the younger man’s. The earnest look in the Inquisitor’s brown eyes rather tugged at his heart. He was, after all, little more than one of the braver hunters in his small clan, obedient to the wishes of his keeper and thus willing to travel far to the west, alone, to witness some great human event. He knew little of magic, and until a little over a year ago, little of leadership. Yet he was always anxious to learn, anxious to live up to the expectations of those around him.

“Your hand,” he said, reaching for the younger man’s left hand. “Has it be hurting you?”

“No,” Talan said, a curious look on his face as he watched Solas examine his hand. Solas touched the palm with the tips of his fingers, feeling the contrasting smoothness against the built up callouses that all archers likely grew.

“I took a page from your book,” the younger man said. “You’re always studying, always working so hard. Trying to figure out what this all means and how we can finally stop it. I guess I wanted to help.”

Solas couldn’t help smiling.

“You do enough already, Inquisitor,” he said. “It is our job to protect you, and to keep you safe.”

“Is it? Do you care about me, Solas?”

The guileless question—though, perhaps not so guileless, he supposed—stopped him momentarily short.

“Of course,” he finally said. He lowered the hand in his, releasing it. “I have pledged myself to the inquisition. I shall do everything I can to assist you in your efforts to defeat Corypheus.”

Talan made a semi-disgusted noise, an annoyed look on his face.

“No,” he said. “Do you care about ME. Me, Talan Lavellan. The man who looks at you like you’ve got stars behind those blue-grey eyes of yours.”

Well, and what does one say to that? Solas certainly didn’t know. He looked back at the younger man, very much hoping his bemusement were not written on his face as clearly as he thought it must be.

Talan frowned. “I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You’ve done no such thing,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth on their own accord.

The smile returned to the Inquisitor’s face, this time with its usual hint of impishness.

“So you’re blushing because you like me?” he teased. “I’ll take that as a good sign because I like you, too. Though… I think maybe you already know that.”

“I’m not—”

Before the rest of the protest could leave his lips, however, he was suddenly kissing the younger man again, Talan leaning forward and pressing their lips together. As usual, his eyes closed automatically, his mouth softening against the other man’s. Since they were alone, he allowed himself to rest a hand against Talan’s waist; gradually, his other hand cupped the back of the younger man’s head, his fingers sliding through soft brown hair. He felt Talan’s own hand beginning to curl around his neck, the tips of his fingers tickling his flushed skin.

“You do like me,” Talan said, once they’d both paused for air.

“Yes,” he said, and he kissed him again because he couldn’t seem to not kiss him.

“Then what is it?” Talan asked him.

The question wasn’t the only thing that gave him pause. A hand had come to rest between them, too, Talan’s palm pressing gently against his chest.

He looked back up at the younger man, his brow furrowing.

“Are we going to make love now, and afterward you’ll just pretend it didn’t happen? Just like when we kissed in the Fade?”

It frustrated him mightily that he could feel the blood rushing to his face at the words ‘make love.’ He swallowed, not a little annoyed with himself for being so out of practice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

Talan gave him an exasperated sigh.

“THAT. _That’s_ what I mean. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Why do you act like there’s nothing going on between us? Why let me kiss you if you don’t want to be with me?”

Well. And there it was. He lowered his hands, already lamenting the loss of that soft hair against his fingers. He looked down and cleared his throat. His eyes strayed momentarily to the books still strewn about them on the bed—a testament to the earnest nature of this young man he’d come to care about so deeply, whether he chose to admit it or not.

“Because I would be a distraction,” he said. “A distraction you don’t need.”

“Shouldn’t I decide what I do and don’t need?”

Solas smiled a little. “A fair point. But… is this truly the best time to enter into a relationship? We are apart for weeks, sometimes months at a time. We both live very dangerous lives, though neither of us is a soldier by nature. Our enemy is strong and without mercy. And _you_ are his primary target. If there is even the slightest chance that I could lose…”

He trailed off, surprised at where his own train of thought had taken him.

“You’re afraid of losing me,” Talan supplied, his voice gentle. “That’s it, isn’t it.”

Solas found he could not answer.

Talan took his hands in both of his, his fingers squeezing lightly.

“Haven’t you ever loved and lost, Solas? Isn’t that part of life?”

“It does not have to be,” he countered, the words thick in his throat.

“No, it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes it ends happily. Maybe it will for us, too.”

He looked at the other man, truly looked at him. It made him ache to do so. Talan Lavellan was beautiful. His eyes were warm and expressive, his lashes dark and thick. The freckles splattered across his face like flecks of brown paint were so utterly endearing. Everything about this young man had become inordinately precious to him, he realized. There was likely no turning back now.

“I suppose you could be right,” he said.

Talan smiled, the expression beatific.

“Does that mean you’ll stop pretending?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Solas said, and it was as if something inside him were released, unfurling, lightening a burden he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “Yes.”

He gazed at the younger man for a moment before reaching up, curling a hand around his neck and pulling him gently closer.

The kiss was gentle yet passionate, their desire for one another tentative at first, as it was still such a new thing. But Talan was clearly tired of waiting. He was the first to slide a hand beneath Solas’s tunic, and the first to begin leaning back, pulling his new lover down with him. Solas couldn’t help chuckling at the eagerness of youth. Still, he was hardly in any better shape. Talan seemed to know this, and the sound he heard himself make when the younger man’s hand brushed over the front of his trousers was, all things considered, rather embarrassing.

There was a great deal of touching, this first time together. Even when they were naked, they could not seem to get enough of touching one another’s various parts. He rubbed the back of his hand against Talan’s soft cheek, pressed it gently against his warm chest and belly. Talan’s fingers slid over the curve of his back and further, his rough callouses causing the older man to shiver with desire.

A desire so repressed it had almost become a self-inflicted wound. But he opened his feelings up as they made love, letting his mouth and his hands speak for him. He was gentle and passionate, and there was a warmth in his belly that spread to the very tips of his limbs when he saw how skillfully he could ignite desire in his young lover. Talan was very cute in bed, very… Dorian would probably use a word like ‘seductive.’ To Solas, he was precious, perfect.

He held him afterward, and it was quite amusing the way the younger man seemed to want to constantly burrow closer and closer against his chest.

“I’m surprised you are still able to breathe,” he said, his fingers now gently stroking through his lover’s soft hair.

“You’re warm,” came the muffled reply.

Solas’ eyes trailed towards the large open balcony on the far side of the room; the fire was roaring but the drapes were open, and a definite chill had made its way inside.

“Shall I close the drapes?” he asked, and the muffled sound against his chest he took to be an affirmative, so he rose, ignoring the feeble protests, pausing to pull his trousers back on before he crossed the room and pulled the heavy drapes closed.

When he turned around, the Inquisitor was now sitting up in bed, his rumpled hair framing his face. It was such an adorable vision that Solas was momentarily struck dumb, his eyes blinking back at his lover.

“What?” asked Talan, one hand coming up to scratch through his hair.

Solas worked to bring his expression back to neutral. “Nothing,” he said, smiling a little as he came forward, rejoining him in the bed.

Talan wrapped his arms around his middle and leaned against him, sighing.

“Tell me about these books you’re reading,” he said, running a soothing hand over one the younger man’s biceps, his skin now chilly to the touch. With his other hand, he reached for a stack of books, pulling them closer.

“I can’t really make heads or tails of them,” Talan admitted, a sheepish look on his face. “I just feel so useless sometimes. All I do is stomp about the countryside slaying demons and closing rifts. I don’t really _contribute_ to the cause in anyway.”

Solas found the complaint absurd, although the somewhat whining voice that accompanied it brought a faint smile to his face.

“You are not useless, vhenan,” he said, leafing absolutely through one of the texts. “I cannot close rifts. Does that make me useless?”

“No, but you’re a mage. And you’re smart, and know a lot about spirits.”

“And what of Varric, or Cassandra, or the Iron Bull? They are not mages.”

Talan seemed to hesitate. “They’re great fighters. And Varric knows Hawke.”

“And you are a great fighter, and strong, and wise. Becoming wiser every day,” he added to counter the huffy look this last appellation earned him. He supposed it might be difficult to consider oneself ‘wise’ at the grand old age of twenty-five.

“And you are kind,” he continued, “Kind to your friends and to those who need us and our aid. You are brave. You entered the Fade and nearly defeated Fear itself.”

“Do you think Stroud survived?”

“I cannot say. But he is a Warden; duty and sacrifice are the ideals by which he lives his life, such as it is. We may mourn him, vhenan, but do not pity him. It was his choice, and we should honor that.”

Talan sighed. “I do. Believe me, I do. I just don’t like the thought of so many people dying while I… I don’t know. Keep living.”

“Consider this, da’len. A great deal more would have died had you done nothing.”

That silenced the younger man for a moment. But then he seemed to decide to steer the conversation in a completely different direction.

“Solas,” he said, his voice rather more careful than normal, “Are you Dalish?”

“Strictly speaking, no.” He did not find the question difficult to answer. It was simply something he rarely wished to speak of. “I was cast out of my clan at a very young age, forced to fend for myself.”

“Because you were a mage?”

“Just so.”

“But my clan never treated children with magic like that. We kept them until we met with another clan.”

“Yes, but not all clans are the same. After I left, I chose to remain on my own. I was terrified of possession, seeing as how I’d been given very rudimentary training. But my connection to the Fade had always been strong, so I met that fear head on. I learned to converse with spirits, and in turn learned a great deal from them. As I grew older, the friendlier ones directed me to areas of interest, places where ancient elves once dwelt. I collected many artifacts, and again learned much. I suppose I have always been curious about the world around me, but perhaps even more so about the world which no longer exists.”

“It was curiosity which brought you to the Conclave.”

“Yes, and no. Technically, I was already in the area. But I was curious, yes, so I began to make my way to Haven. Fortunately, I did not arrive in time.”

“Fortunately,” the younger man breathed, and Solas imagined he was reliving those first few minutes, of waking up in Haven, confused and disoriented, and imprisoned as if he’d done something terrible, when really, it was he who’d had a terrible thing done to him.

Solas looked away from the book he was glancing through, his eyes studying his lover’s somber expression. He leaned over, then, and placed a gentle kiss against his temple.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Inquisitor?” said the voice on the other side—it was Cassandra.

The door opened, and she began to make her way up the steps.

“Inquisitor,” she said again, “I have the documents you requested. However, I do not think—oh!”

“Cassandra,” said Talan, sheepish. “Sorry. I forgot I’d told you to meet me here.”

For reasons unknown, Solas hadn’t moved; he _couldn’t_ seem to move. He simply sat there, sitting shirtless in bed with a naked Inquisitor who was, thankfully, covered from the waist down.

“It is—I who should apologize,” she said. Her eyes had dropped significantly lower than their faces and rested somewhere in the vicinity of their naked chests. _Saucy_ , Dorian would say.

“Perhaps you might return later,” he finally managed to say. “Or perhaps I might leave myself. If you and the Inquisitor have business—

“No!” said Talan. “Don’t leave! Cassandra, I’m so sorry. Can we meet in the War Room in about thirty minutes?”

“Of course,” she said.

She gave them one last little look before turning and heading back downstairs. Solas thought he caught a smile beginning to spread across her chiseled features.

“Wonderful,” he said, once the door had closed. “Soon everyone will know. I shall become the laughing stock of Skyhold.”

Talan laughed. “What, because you’re with me? Maybe we should give you some sort of official title. Consort to the Inquisitor has a nice ring to it.”

“If you dare to do so you shall never see me again,” he said, his limbs stiffening at the very thought of it, even though he knew in his heart his lover was only joking.

Predictably, that only made Talan laugh even more.

“You’re so ridiculous!” he said, putting his arms around him against and squeezing affectionately. “I love you, Solas. And I’m so relieved you love me, too.”

This struck Solas as mildly presumptuous, as he’d yet to declare any such thing.

Voicing this concern earned him, again, predictably enough, a playful pout.

“So you don’t love me.”

Solas cleared his throat. “Well…”

And in the third predictable move in a matter of minutes, he was silenced with a kiss. It was very convenient to still be in bed, and only half-dressed at that. He let himself be lowered backwards, his playful lover straddling his waist, peppering his face with kisses. He smiled despite himself, running his fingers through silky brown hair, his own lips finding freckle after freckle to kiss and nuzzle.

Thirty minutes. It felt like an eternity—a dream from which he would never have to wake. And one he would never again have to share alone. He wondered at this self-imposed exile he had been living under, if perhaps realizing he was in love had only caused him to fortify his barriers even more. But as any well-trained mage knew, any barrier could eventually be broken.

“Even the barriers of the heart,” said Varric, as he sat across from them that evening at dinner. “Oh, I like that. I’m writing that down.”

For reasons unknown to Solas, he had found himself compelled to relay his thoughts from this afternoon to Varric, with Talan beside him, chipping in now and then. It was some sort of gift the man had, this ability to get people to tell him their life stories.

“I hate you,” said Solas.

Varric grinned. “You’ll hate me less when the royalties start trickling in. I promise to kick a little in your direction. Maybe update that ‘apostate hobo’ look of yours Dorian’s always complaining about.

“I stand corrected. I hate you both.”

Talan only laughed.

 

_Finis~_

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